Falling leaves painted the early autumn streets, and the rain kept drizzling down, dampening the air.

At Northsky First Hospital, the light outside the OR remained on, the sharp scent of disinfectant thick in the hall.

The bright yet gentle glow of the surgical lamp cast a soft white over the operating table. The heart monitor pulsed, its rhythm flashing.

Beep—beep—beep—

Suddenly, an alert pierced the silence inside the OR. The monitor's data spiked—unstable vitals, surging waves on the display.

A woman’s voice, urgent and rising, cut through the tension.

"Dr. Sterling, the patient’s blood pressure’s dropping fast!"

"Dr. Sterling, heart rate’s shooting up!"

She sounded more anxious by the second. "Body temp’s falling, O2 saturation’s down—"

"Dr. Sterling—"

Her voice got abruptly cut off by a calm, low murmur. "Quiet."

He said it flat, no edge, no emotion. But it somehow sounded warm, like his voice could smooth out the panic in the room.

What a voice, the nurse thought, stunned into silence.

Three or four staff in blue sterile gowns barely reacted—they knew the drill. Calm and steady, they moved in sync with the man under the surgical light.

The light kissed his profile—sharp contours just hinted beneath the mask, almost sculpted. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. What skin showed was pale but smooth under the lamp’s white glow.

His brows were slightly furrowed, but the subtle lift at the edges carried a quiet intensity. His eyes, pitch-black, looked like endless ink—deep and unreadable.

This man’s eyes held galaxies, like a cold winter sky glittering faintly.

He dropped his gaze, long lashes casting a shadow beneath his eyes. His tone, low and smooth, carried in the air. "Suction."

Calm as a breeze, like he wasn’t navigating a high-risk open-heart surgery but rearranging parts of some lifeless model.

In total control. Totally still. And crazy elegant. That was the nurse’s impression of Dr. Sterling.

He stayed unbothered, voice soft but commanding. "Clamp."

"Forceps."

"Hemostat."

His voice? Legit addictive.

His gloved hands moved with practiced ease—slender, almost too refined, like they’d never seen a hard day but knew exactly what they were doing.

He meticulously opened the patient’s heart, layer by precise layer.

Then, he seemed to chuckle, the corner of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. "Got it," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

There it was—the tumor buried deep in the veins. Under the clean slide of his scalpel, it looked raw and messy. No hesitation. One swift cut.

Beep—

The monitor stilled. Readings back to normal. Warning silenced.

A nurse near the monitor breathed out, visibly relieved, stress melting off her face. "Vitals are back. BP and pulse are stable."

Dr. Sterling just glanced over, then smoothly moved on to reconnecting vessels. His hands worked fast, every move clean and tight.

In just over ten minutes, he set the scalpel down.

His voice was still that perfect mix of low and warm, slightly husky now, but just as steady. "Dr. Miller."

The assisting surgeon looked up. "On it—time to close up, right?" He grinned. "Nice work, Dr. Sterling."

Edison tipped his head a little. "Thanks, everyone. Solid job."Putting down the scalpel, the man stepped out from beneath the stark white surgical light. His tall, slender figure was somehow eye-catching, even in the identical blue scrubs everyone wore.

Even just his silhouette was captivating—you couldn’t help but stare.

The young nurse abruptly looked away, patted her chest, and let out a shaky breath. “That scared me to death… it was such a close call. The patient nearly didn’t make it—”

Nearby, the head nurse responsible for the transfusion looked up. “Your first time in the OR?”

Emma Green nodded. She had spent three years working in the outpatient department before being reassigned to cardiology. This really was her first surgery.

Mrs. Walsh continued working while tossing out a quick tip. “Try not to panic next time. Dr. Sterling doesn’t like noise during operations. He says,” she glanced up briefly, “it messes with his groove while he's making cuts.”

The newbie nurse blinked in disbelief.

Wait, seriously? The hospital’s legendary surgeon operates depending on his mood?

“But… the patient was really in danger just now, wasn’t he?” Emma mumbled.

“In danger?” Mrs. Walsh chuckled like she’d heard a joke. “Haven’t you heard the stories?”

Tianbei First Hospital was the biggest hospital in H City with seventeen buildings covering various departments. Coming from outpatient, Emma wouldn't have caught wind of all the chatter on the ninth floor where cardiothoracic was.

Being new and eager to learn, Emma asked earnestly, “What kind of stories?”

Before Mrs. Walsh could speak, Dr. Miller, who was finishing sutures, chimed in, “Five years in practice, 612 surgeries, 43 with less than 50% expected rate of success, and guess what? Zero post-op deaths.”

Even if that sounded exaggerated, working alongside Edison Sterling had Dr. Miller halfway convinced it was all true.

Emma was stunned. That was unreal.

Mrs. Walsh summed it up, “Basically, if Dr. Sterling decides to operate, even someone practically halfway to the grave has a shot at walking out.”

No wonder he was the hospital’s star surgeon.

Emma had stars in her eyes already. “Dr. Sterling is incredible…”

Dr. Miller gave a knowing smile. “You’re still green. You’ll soon find out what a real genius looks like.”

Just then, the operating room door swung open. The man himself walked out slowly.

A relative waiting in the hall rushed over, “Dr. Sterling, how’s my son? Is he alright?”

The man asking was in his sixties, hair mostly grey, gripping the doctor’s wrist tightly. Dr. Sterling pulled down his mask and gave a reassuring smile. “The surgery went very well.”

The man’s face was surprisingly beautiful—clean-cut, with features so finely shaped it’d make you look twice. But not in a feminine way. His lips were a little pale, but everything else—his brows, his eyes—stood out, sharp and strong.

Even the older man staring at him was momentarily dazed before snapping out of it.

He was the patient’s father, and judging by his yellowed nails, he had probably worked with chemicals in the past. With eyes welling up, he gripped the doctor’s hand harder. “Thank you, Dr. Sterling. Thank you so much.”

Dr. Sterling’s smile was gentle. “No need to thank me. Just doing my job.”

“If it weren’t for you, my son…” His voice broke, tears choking his words.

Dr. Sterling patted the older man’s hand gently and said, “I have to see another patient,” then turned and walked away.

The man froze briefly, then realized—Dr. Sterling’s hand was ice cold.This doctor—he's the one treating his son. He’d asked around, and everyone said the same thing: Dr. Sterling’s got serious skills and a good heart. Apparently, the guy's practically a legend.

Edison Sterling. A name so gentle, you’d expect it to belong to a southern belle, not a top-tier surgeon.

Down the corridor from the operating room, a right turn led to the sanitation room. Evening had crept in; the place was empty except for the glaring line of lights that made the room dim in a weird way.

Sterling stood there, head bowed, half his face hidden in shadow. The sink gushed loudly as he scrubbed his wrist over and over, where that old patient had touched him earlier. Soap, brush, scrub—again and again, until the skin flushed red. Then he rinsed off the sudsy yellowish foam, grabbed a sterile towel, and dried slowly, like it was part of a ritual.

He raised his head. His reflection stared back at him from the shiny metal cabinet—sharply defined features and shadowed eyes full of things unsaid.

Out in the main lobby of the surgical building, the TV was blaring—it was prime-time news hour, but the screen showed a wild, live concert scene. Screams and cheers punched through from the speakers like you were there in the middle of it.

Two nurses at the front desk had ditched work for a bit and were watching.

A sold-out stadium, stage lights exploding like fireworks. Right in the center stood a woman—deep smokey eye makeup, short shorts and a leather jacket, her long hair whipped back dramatically. She tilted her head up and belted out one last high note with that raspy, unforgettable voice. Then she raised her wooden guitar, kissed the strings, and shouted, “This is my glory—shared with all of you!”

Cue fan frenzy. Screams, applause, chaos.

Even in the hospital, people freaked out.

"AHHHHH!"

Nurse Haley swooned where she stood, one hand holding her forehead, the other clutching her desk partner. "I’m gonna pass out—hold me, now!"

Nurse Gwenda side-eyed the screen calmly. Yeah, the rock-n-roll chick was gorgeous—cool and fierce, a total knockout with that wild charm. Then she glanced at her overly dramatic coworker, now straight-up fangirling. "A little much, don’t you think?"

Haley rolled her eyes at her. Then, googly-eyed, she looked back at the TV. "You don’t get it! If you’re a real Clarke fan, how can you not want to marry her? She gives the entire male species an existential crisis."

Clarke.

In the entertainment world, there was only one woman they called “Sir”—rock goddess Dimity Clarke. Beautiful in a fierce, icy way, with a half-smile that always felt a little cold but still made you shiver.

Gwenda couldn’t help thinking of her seven-year-old twins—those two barely agreed on anything, but the only time they joined forces without a fight was for Dimity Clarke. Obsessed was an understatement.

I mean, how does one woman have that much universal appeal?

Haley was still gushing when her eyes caught someone walking over. He looked like he’d stepped out of an ink painting—elegant and clean, almost ethereal. She chirped with a grin, "Hey, Dr. Sterling!"

Edison gave a slight nod, eyes fixed on the TV screen, intense.

"You… you’re a Clarke fan too?" Haley blinked, surprised by her own question.

Sterling shook his head just as someone switched the channel. He grabbed the rounding chart from the counter and walked off.

Gwenda, still staring at those long, god-level legs, rested her chin on her palm, thinking out loud, "You think Clarke also broke his ego?"

Her twins kept saying that after seeing Dimity Clarke, their dad felt like life was one big defeat.

"No way," Haley snapped out of it, dreamy eyes sparkling. "Other guys maybe, but Dr. Sterling? He’s alpha tier—top of the food chain." But then she paused, her tone turning wistful. "Though, I gotta admit… the way he looked at Clarke on that screen… almost like he’s more obsessed than I am."Nurse Gwenda nudged her, half-laughing. "Girl, stop assuming everyone's as brain-dead as you."

Dr. Sterling? The guy’s like a walking marble statue—untouchable. Honestly, out of the ten nurses here, nine fangirl over him for all the wrong reasons. The one who doesn’t? She's married.

"I'm telling you, I'm a loyal wife-fan, not some obsessed fangirl, okay? I’m dead set on having little Sterling babies with Dimity Clarke!" Nurse Haley huffed, then glanced over at the doctor striding off in the distance. Suddenly serious, she leaned over and whispered, "No joke though, last time I was in Dr. Sterling’s office, I accidentally saw his PC screen. And guess what? Full-on HD wallpaper of my girl Dimity. It screamed 'been-a-Dimity-stan-for-500-years' energy. He’s hiding it like mad. Secret hardcore fan, maybe?"

Gwenda swatted her. "Don't go dragging Dr. Sterling off his pedestal like that. The man’s practically made of moonlight. Honestly, I kinda think he’s not even into women."

Boom. Gossip bomb.

Haley’s eyes lit up like she'd just sniffed out some spicy scandal.

"No, but listen! You remember that time the dean’s daughter—you know, the knockout—grabbed Dr. Sterling’s coat in a panic? Word is, he calmly shrugged it off. Like, the way he did it? Smooth. Regal. Then,"

Haley was practically bouncing. "Then?? What happened next?!"

Everyone knew the dean’s darling had a thing for the good doctor—that wasn’t news.

Gwenda snorted. "Then he grabbed a bottle of medical alcohol, lit it up, burned the coat, and in the most gentlemanly tone ever, looked at her and said," Gwenda cleared her throat, mimicking that cool elegance, "'Well, I do have more alcohol... care to sanitize your hands?'"

You could practically hear the metaphorical slap echoing.

Pure elite behavior. No mercy, all style.

"That’s why he’s literally god-tier material! Not someone we mere mortals can even dream of touching." Haley sighed dramatically, then went to grab the remote and switched to the concert channel, happily swooning again. "But honestly? He and Dimity look like a damn work of art together. He’s all calm and classy, and she’s this wild, icy goddess—ugh, such a vibe!"

"Tch." Gwenda pulled a face. "You’re blushing like a sap."

And proud she was!

Thirty million Dimity stans out there, and not one of 'em wasn't lowkey blushing over her. Haley was just doing her fangirl duty with pride.

"But real talk though," Gwenda said, shaking her head, "when a man like Dr. Sterling’s into someone, what does that even look like? I can’t picture it."

Haley, as expected, kept mentally playing out the high-noble-meets-ice-queen scenarios… things getting steamy real quick.

Everyone who met Edison Sterling had the same thought: if there was still such a thing as nobility in this century, he’d be it. He carried himself like a man carved from old-world grace—not flashy, just... right.

Cardiothoracic Department. Edison Sterling.

Outside his office, the nameplate read just that. Simple. Direct.

Inside, he switched on his laptop, sank into his chair, took off his lab coat, and rubbed his temples. When he finally looked up at the screen, his eyes softened in a way polar opposite to his usual placid demeanor.

His gaze locked onto the photo… the face staring back at him.

“Dimity…”

His voice barely made a sound, lips barely moving—but the name came out slow, tender. His deep-set eyes, usually calm and icy, quietly turned crimson.

"Dimity."

"Dimity…"

He leaned in, lips brushing against the cool screen, tracing her lips in the photo, as if that was all he’d ever wanted.

And in his eyes—the obsession ran deep enough to turn shadows.